


this crown of thorns

by Eliane



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: .... as usual, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Obsessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/pseuds/Eliane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there's one thing Harry is sure of, it's that he doesn't want to forget a single thing about Louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this crown of thorns

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, thanks to [Marianna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner) even though she was disappointed I didn't follow my original idea & ended this differently ; thanks to [Clara](http://barefootau.tumblr.com/) for proofreading & generally crying over the same things as me; thanks to [Jen](http://rockmevevo.tumblr.com/) for always being supportive! 
> 
> Thanks to [Julia](http://bunboyriend.tumblr.com/) for the graph! 
> 
> Apparently, canon compliant angst is now a thing I do. Bernard Giraudeau once said "I want to believe that sacrifices have a meaning" & that's honestly all i hope for H&L. 
> 
> Title comes from [this song](http://www.metrolyrics.com/hurt-lyrics-johnny-cash.html), if you want to have fun and listen to it while reading this [here you go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vt1Pwfnh5pc)

It starts innocently enough.

They’re bickering about something – later, Harry won’t recall what, exactly, and he’ll be oh so aware of the irony – when Louis says:

“It doesn’t really matter, Haz. It’s not like we’re gonna remember this ten years from now.”

And Harry – Harry doesn’t like this at all. It’s in the way Louis says it, calm and inevitable, like this moment is destined to fade away from their memory, to become something they lived yet let go of, because it didn’t matter enough for them to bother holding on to it. Like there’s absolutely no chance that they could remember it. There’s something wrong with this idea, something that doesn’t sit well with Harry. He looks at Louis, nestled in a soft jumper, crinkles around his eyes. He’s beautiful and bright and Harry thinks, so fiercely it surprises even him – _I don’t want to forget a single thing about you_.

So he takes out his phone and writes down:

Y _ou were bickering and Louis said you wouldn’t remember this moment but you will._

He thinks that he should write this on something more lasting than a bloody phone but he still feels satisfied, happy even. In a decade, he’ll surprise Louis by telling him – “Remember this time, when we were young and you were so sure that I would forget our conversation but I didn’t.” Louis will laugh and think him a little crazy, maybe, but it won’t matter, what will matter is that they’ll still be together.

Later, Harry will see this moment for what it is. He’ll look back at it, at when it all started, and will realise that it was always about more than just wanting to prove a point. Who, in their right mind, decides to prove a point ten years from now anyway? He’ll understand that it was about more than being scared to forget. It was a promise, when everything seemed to be crumbling around them, when it felt like their world was close to collapsing under their feet. A promise to himself, and to Louis, that they would somehow survive this and come out of it, if not unscathed then at least intact enough that they could look back and think, _we are still standing_.

It starts innocently enough.

\---

In the beginning, he only writes down random things, on random items. He’ll see Louis do something or say something and he’ll think “I have to remember this too.” So he’ll grab the nearest piece of paper or, if he has no other choice, his phone and will commit it to posterity.

On a Sunday morning he writes – _the way Louis’ eyelashes formed shadows on his cheekbones when the light of the morning hit him just so (we were still in bed, he was sleeping)_. On a Thursday afternoon he writes – _the way Louis chuckled, raspy and soft and just for me_. On a Saturday night he writes – _the way Louis moaned my name_.

It’s not enough. Those random thoughts are not enough and, even though they help, Harry knows he needs to get more organized.

Which, maybe, is how it really starts.

\---

For things to be organized, you first need to have a system. Harry looks at all the random pieces of paper he has accumulated during the past few weeks and decides that they won’t do, they won’t do at all. So he buys post its, tons of them. They’re tiny, and practical, and they’ll most assuredly do.

Then, you need to be realistic.

Harry isn’t an idiot. He knows that there’s no such thing as remembering it all, that some things will get lost in time and that there’s absolutely nothing he can do to change that. He knows that the way Louis looked at him this morning, still sleepy and a bit too soft, is something that will slip away from him; that will vanish in a sea of endlessly similar mornings. And, really, Harry would relish the idea that he’ll have so many of those mornings with Louis that there will come a day when he won’t be able to tell them apart, if he weren’t so afraid that there are things about Louis he simply won’t remember.

So, Harry decides that if he can’t remember it all he can, at least, be methodical about what he wants to remember.

That’s when he begins making lists.

\--- 

At first, the lists are only about Louis. He’ll write random observations on his post its, depending on his mood of the moment and what he feels like not forgetting. He spends a week doing what seems to be a detailed inventory of Louis’ wardrobe. Then, he carefully consigns every body part of Louis from the ones he kissed the most to the ones he definitely hasn’t kissed enough times yet.

It’s fun and it passes the time when Harry feels so bored he’s afraid he’s just going to snap at someone and, honestly, it’s not like he’s hurting anyone. It helps him fill the silence in his mind; the long hours before the shows and the long hours after the shows and all the hours during which he’s not allowed to talk to Louis because Louis is with Eleanor. Sometimes, Harry wishes he could scream but he can’t, he really can’t, so he writes lists. 

As far as coping mechanisms go, Harry thinks, this one is fairly mild.

\---

It soon becomes clear enough that post its won’t do either. They’re too likely to get lost and, honestly, too hard to hide properly. So Harry switches to notebooks. They’re small, and compact, and can easily be carried and hidden away. It’s also more convenient to write lists on them.

Harry starts carrying notebooks with him everywhere. People notice, but no one really questions why. The thing is, they don’t think Harry could actually be intelligent enough to write things in them. Which is – fine.

\---

Harry writes lists. He writes endless lists of things he wants to remember. He goes through phases.

\--- 

One of the lists is entitled: “things Louis said”. It’s, shamefully, quite long. Sometimes, Harry can’t help himself and tweets them, knowing that some people will be able to recognize who said those words. Most of the time, though, he keeps those little snippets for himself, random quotes he can look back at and that will make him laugh, that will make him remember why he chose Louis so long ago.

Because that’s what it was, despite what everyone else seems to think. It’s not like Harry saw Louis and felt he had no other choice at all. Harry saw Louis and thought that no other choice he could make would ever be as good, as right, as this one. So Harry chose Louis and, really, that’s the story.

Maybe, one day, Harry will write it down too.

\--- 

Harry writes about all the places they have been to. Well, not all of them, more like the highlights, but he’s learning that when it comes to memories he doesn’t have much choice but to discard some of them.

So he writes:

  *       London (don’t forget how much fun you had in your garden)
  *       Rome (maybe you could have been exchange students and)
  *       Granada (the light in the morning when everyone else was still sleeping)
  *       Paris (the smell of fresh pastries and hot coffee)
  *       Prague (winter and kissing Louis on a bridge)
  *       New York (the cherry trees in Central park)



He thinks: _we were in love everywhere around the world and the world was in love with us_.

Harry writes about all the places they went to.

\--- 

It’s not a secret, not really. But it’s also not something Harry wants to talk about. Mostly, because he wouldn’t even know where to begin. How do you say _– I am so in love with you that the idea of forgetting a single thing about you is unthinkable?_ How do you say – _everything is so shitty around us I’m holding on to the littlest things and those are what keeps me sane, every fucking day_.

Harry knows Louis. He knows that Louis has the worst saviour complex ever, that he’ll do anything to just not think about himself and think about others. He knows Louis would worry about Harry.

So no, it’s not a secret, really.

But when one day, Louis comes up behind Harry while Harry is writing in his notebook and asks, dropping a kiss against his neck, “What are you doing, love?” Harry shrugs and answers “nothing important.” And it isn’t. Harry is just writing about Louis’ extensive Adidas jackets collection.

“Is it a new song?” Louis asks and he’s so soft Harry wants to cry. Instead, he says:

“Kind of.”

It’s not a lie. In a way, everything Harry has ever written is for Louis, is about Louis. Harry has written songs and endless lists and has consigned memories and not one of those things was only for him. All of them were meant to be shared, at some point. Harry just isn’t sure he can share the memories now. He’s not finished. So he says “kind of” and Louis laughs and answers:

“I’ll leave you to it, then, love.”

And Harry feels ashamed that he’s been keeping so much from Louis, that he lies every time he writes something on a piece of paper, on his phone, in his notebook, that he can’t even tell Louis this single truth – _there’s nothing about you I want to forget_. He feels ashamed and, yet, determined that that’s what he must do.

Louis can’t know, not now. He can’t know about the silence in Harry’s head and the laughter of people who think he’s only carrying notebooks because he’s vain, he can’t know about the endless lists and the obsession. Because that’s what it has become. An obsession.

Louis can’t know how badly Harry is coping. Louis would try to protect him and would end up breaking himself a bit more. That is, Harry thinks, something that can’t happen.

Harry laughs and says, “I’ll come to bed in a bit.” Then, he adds, “I love you so much, you know?”

Louis seems a little lost and unsettled, like he’s not sure what he did to deserve this and it makes Harry want to tear things apart and set the world on fire; drop to his knees and repeat until the end of times _I love you I love you I love you_ but he does none of that. He waits. Louis smiles, a bit shy, and says “can’t wait” and that’s it, really. That’s what they are.

Harry writes, carefully, in his notebook: “the way Louis looked at you when you said you loved him and wanted to cry.”

It’s not fine. But, then again, it’s not been fine for a long time.

\---

Liam is the one who calls him out on it – of course he is. That’s, roughly, how it goes. Liam says:

“We’re worried about you.” Which is, probably, the worst thing he could say to Harry, because if there’s one thing Harry doesn’t need is more people worrying about him. Not when he’s been doing so fucking well, thank you.

“I’m fine, Liam,” he answers noncommittally. Liam, though, doesn’t let go, because that’s apparently a lesson he’s never learned.

“Really Harry,” he says, “don’t you want to, like, talk about it?”

And no, Harry _really_ doesn’t.

“This can’t be healthy for you,” Liam adds.

“What do you know about healthy, though?” Harry asks Liam slowly. “How do you know that what I’m doing, right now, isn’t the healthiest thing I can do to keep myself sane? The very best thing? How, Liam, and please _please_ tell me, do you know this is bad for me, when you literally have no idea what it is to be me?” Harry exhales, shakily and then adds: “Go fuck yourself, Liam. You have no fucking idea, none. If this is what I need then let me have it and no word to Louis, do you understand me?”

Liam nods and, a month later, says that if he had to choose, he would be Harry Styles, for one day, to relieve Harry from his burden. It’s not good enough but Harry appreciates the thought. 

\--- 

Harry spends a week carefully consigning every sexual act him and Louis get up to. At least, if they die in this fucking closet and someone finds Harry’s notebooks they’ll have no doubts about the nature of their relationship.

Fuck them all, Harry thinks. Fuck every single one of them.

He underlines _Louis blew me twice in one afternoon_ and wishes he could feel victorious instead of vaguely nauseous and empty.

\--- 

The lists are a never-ending work in progress. Harry never stops writing them, is always composing one of them in his head.At least, it’s not like Harry’s source of inspiration is going anywhere any time soon.

(Sometimes he does. Sometimes Louis will just disappear for a few days, leave Harry a note or a text telling him he had to take a break and, even though Harry knows it doesn’t mean a break from them but a break from everything else, it doesn’t make any of it easier. Harry will wait in a house that’s too big for him alone yet seems too small for his utter solitude when Louis isn’t there. He’ll wait for Louis to come back to him. At this point, Harry knows coping mechanisms well and, if that’s what Louis needs, Harry isn’t going to take it away from him. Instead, Harry adds a new name to the list entitled “places Louis went without me.”)

\--- 

They have, exactly, two types of fights.

The first one is about things they both don’t care about. The second one is about things they care about too much.

The first one involves a fair bit of yelling, dramatic exits and epic reconciliations. The second one involves words spoken so softly they would seem benign to the outsider yet cut sharper than any of their screams. It involves quiet tears and whispered _I’m so so sorry_ and promises to never fight again they both know they can’t keep.

In Harry’s notebooks, there are pages divided in two columns. The first one is entitled, “fights we had about nothing”, the second one, “fights we had about things that are too much”. He doesn’t really keep track of how many items there are in either column but, when the second one begins to look longer than the first one, Harry will pick a fight about the most random thing he can think of.

He used to feel ashamed, in the beginning. Used to spend the next few days making it up to Louis, kissing him every time he could and telling him he loves him more than he usually did. Which was, in all honestly, rather difficult, but still something he managed to do.  Then, he learned that even the shame passes. After some time, the only thing that matters is that the first column is always, always the longest one.

So Harry will pick a fight about the groceries or he’ll pick a fight about Louis not doing the laundry and the truth is, Harry isn’t really mad about those things. Never has been. The fact that he may be going mad is a different matter entirely.

In the end, Harry thinks, maybe they only have one kind of fight.

\--- 

The French for ordeal is _ordali_ e. Whereas in English ordeal is about a frustrating, inconvenient experience you have to go through, the French term has retained its original, medieval, meaning.

It’s about God’s judgement. It means you’ve been judged by water, fire, air and earth and the only way to win is to survive.

This is not about believing in God, not really. It’s about survival. It’s about doing whatever you have to do to make it to the other side alive. It is, also, about punishment.

Sometimes, it feels like Louis is taking too much upon himself, just to spare Harry. As if Harry couldn’t see, exactly, what it’s doing to him. As if there aren’t some nights, when Louis is asleep next to him, where the only thing Harry can do is to stare at the ceiling, exhausted yet unable to fall asleep, and think about the permanent weight that has settled on Louis’ shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes, the way he laughs a little less freely. The thing is, Harry feels grateful for what Louis does. Grateful that Louis loves him so much it was never a question, really, of whom had to bear more than the other. That they never even discussed it.

It doesn’t mean, however, that Harry doesn’t ever feel guilty.

Harry spends an entire month consigning every thing that breaks his heart. He writes – _the way Louis’ face fell when he read about me in the papers this morning_. He writes – _the unhappy line of Louis’ mouth when I came home drunk_. He writes – _the way Louis didn’t shed a tear when we talked about my winter girlfriend_.

One night, Louis asks, voice small and on the verge of breaking:

“Are we okay, Haz? You’ve been kinda really distant lately.”

Which is, Harry thinks, the complete opposite of what Harry wanted to do. He wanted to share a portion, even a small one, of what Louis has to bear every day for loving him and being with him. He wanted – and he knows it’s fucked up, he does – to be closer to Louis. Not to make everything worse.

So he answers:

“Of course we are, Lou. I’m sorry, I never meant…”

And Louis doesn’t cry, Harry doesn’t leave him the time to, he kisses him and kisses him, capturing Louis’ trembling lips between his and repeats: “of course we are, of course.” 

It’s the first time Harry realises what he’s doing isn’t only affecting him but is weighting on Louis too. He thinks about stopping, for a while. He thinks that maybe he has enough memories now, maybe he’s ready to let go.

He lasts a week before starting again. This time, he swears, he’ll only write about the good things, the bright things. This time, he won’t let it get out of control.

\--- 

The bright things seem few and far in between. It’s not even that they aren’t there, more like they’ll vanish so quickly it makes little sense to write them down to keep them forever.

Harry is painfully aware of the paradox, knows that he started this because he wanted for those moments not to fade away.

It just seems like there isn’t much point in trying to hold on to things that are so intent on being swallowed up by everything else.

Harry couldn’t say if he’s growing up or if he’s just becoming more resigned.

He goes back to writing lists.

\--- 

Harry knows what he’s doing isn’t healthy. He never needed Liam to tell him or for Louis to nearly break to realise it. There is a thin line, however, between what’s not healthy yet still helpful and what’s outright destructive. It’s hard to tell when you’ve crossed it. When what helped you get out of bed every morning and made everything hurt a little less became one of the things that hurt you.

This line was crossed when Louis almost thought Harry didn’t love him anymore.

Which is why Harry has to be very careful not to cross it again.

He gives himself rules. First, he’ll write less. Then he’ll be more careful about what he writes.

He shreds every single page that contains the columns where he listed their fights. He gets rid off the papers where he wrote down the bad memories.

If he only keeps the good things, even if he can’t write about them anymore, he’ll be fine. They both will.

The thing, about sacrifices, is that they only make sense if you survive them, if they bring you your happy ending. Harry will survive this and swears that Louis will never know, how close he came to breaking.

\---

In November 2014, Harry doesn’t write a thing. He learns that, sometimes, there’s nothing you want to remember.

\---

Sometimes, Harry writes about a future he imagines. Memories he thinks will be worth making once they’re free. He writes names of places he wants them to go or come back to, things they didn’t see together, things they didn’t do yet, things he wishes for them to do. Sometimes (often) he makes lists of baby names.

In the summer of 2015, he stops doing that too.

One day, he sits down in front of his notebook, pen in hand, and tries to think of something to write down. Something about the past or the future. Nothing comes to mind.

He wonders what you call it, when both your past and your future have been robbed from you. When it seems like you have nothing left to recall and nothing left to imagine.

He feels adrift and, some days, the only thing keeping him sane anymore is the anchor tattooed across his wrist. That, he thinks, is something they can’t take away from him, from them. They can take away his words and remove their songs from the setlist, they can take away a magazine cover that should have been theirs and give it to one of their closest friends, to make sure they can’t even feel angry about it, but they can’t take away the ink under their skin, whispered promises of forever.

They don’t have much left, but this can be enough.

\--- 

For the longest time, Harry doesn’t write anymore.

\---

One November afternoon, while they’re both lounging on their sofa, lazily reading and listening to the sound of the rain outside, Louis says, carefully:

“I haven’t seen you write in one of your notebooks in a while. Don’t you like it anymore?”

Which, of course, is a hard question to answer, since Harry never actually liked it. It was about necessity. It was about obsession. It was about not going mad and, for a while, it helped until it didn’t anymore and it started to feel like a burden – suffocating and nauseous and like Harry was drowning under the weight of every memory, every written word.  Harry’s not sure he’s doing better, exactly, not sure that his new found indifference is something he should rejoice in, but he can’t really bring himself to care. Old coping mechanisms fade away to leave place to new ones and that’s how it goes, really.

But the way Louis is looking at him is inquisitive and almost hopeful and Harry couldn’t even begin to explain why he doesn’t write anymore without telling Louis the whole story, how it started to be about the memories and then turned into something else, so he just shrugs and says:

“Haven’t really been feeling like it, lately.”

“Do you want…” Louis begins, then stops, the way he does when he fears he’s going to be rejected. He stays quiet, for a while, before continuing: “Do you want, maybe, to write something with me? Like, nothing major, not like a song, but maybe we could throw some ideas on the paper, yeah?”

It’s a bit weird, the way Louis is looking at him so eagerly, like this means so much to him, and Harry doesn’t feel like it, doesn’t feel like writing anything, but he doesn’t want to disappoint Louis.

So he says “sure,” and the way Louis beams at him is enough to make most of his reticence disappear. For the first time in a long while, Harry feels like he wants to remember this. He wants to remember how soft Louis is and how happy he looks, he wants to remember the sound of the rain outside and the blurry light of an autumn afternoon. Mostly, he wants to remember the quiet between them, the warmth, the way Louis’ glasses are a bit askew, how young he looks in his oversized jumper. How Harry loves him and loves him and loves him.

How, even when he’d stopped writing down things he wanted to remember about Louis, he had never stopped loving him, not one second.

Harry smiles at him and says, a bit more enthusiastically: “Okay, let’s write”. This time, it doesn’t feel like a lie.

They end up writing a song. It’s not their best work, but it’s the first time they’ve written something together, the first time Harry has written anything in months.

It is, he thinks, the beginning of better times.

\---

So he starts writing memories again, from time to time, but the need, the all-compassing necessity he felt that used to drive him, is gone.

Harry remembers being angry – so very angry – and he remembers hurting the way you do when everything around you is too much and too heavy, when you’re only eighteen and it feels like the whole world is ready to swallow you.

Harry remembers all that even though he doesn’t feel it anymore. Not the anger, not the rage, not the obsession. He guesses there are some things you can’t hold on to, no matter how fiercely you try.

Most of all, he remembers being in love with Louis, and how it seemed like the only thing that would keep him sane, the only thing worth fighting for.

In the end, it’s the only thing that matters. Harry remembers being in love with Louis.

It’s okay if the rest just fades away.

\--- 

Sometimes, Harry feels some remnants of his old obsession coming back to him. Usually, it doesn’t last long, a few days, a few weeks maybe. When it happens, Harry does what he’s done countless of times, opens an old notebook and starts making lists.

He writes – _the way Louis still smiles at you in the morning when you wake up_. He writes – _the way Louis still kisses you, like you’re the most precious thing in the world_. He writes – the _way Louis still loves you_.

\---

When the day finally arrives Harry, ironically enough, forgets all about it. He hasn’t opened any of his notebooks in months, hasn’t felt the need to.

It’s only late at night, when they’re both already in bed and are starting to fall asleep that it comes back to him. For a moment, he hesitates. So much time has passed it’s not like he feels the need to prove a point anymore. The truth is, Harry won. He’s here, with Louis, and they both made it. They don’t talk about what it took or the price they paid because they agreed a long time ago that this, them, was worth it.

But there’s someone else Harry owes something to. An eighteen year old boy who wrote endless lists on post its and tiny notebooks in order not to go mad. Not to break. It’s for him, in the end, that Harry whispers:

“Hey, Lou, remember…”

And Louis, surprisingly enough, answers:

“Yes.”

“Oh, you do?”

“Of course, I do,” Louis says. Then, more hesitantly, he adds: “Haz? I know it hasn’t been a thing, like, in a while. But you can stop now.”

Harry doesn’t ask how Louis knows, just says:

“How long?"

“Since the beginning.”

They don’t talk about what it took or the price they paid. Harry clutches Louis’ hand a little harder. He thinks about years of obsessively writing down everything about Louis he could think of, he thinks about years of carefully hidden notebooks and lies that he dismissed as not telling the whole truth. He thinks about Louis, coming up behind him and kissing the crook of his neck while enquiring about what he was writing, about Louis, hopefully asking him if they could write something together. He thinks about Louis, silent all this time, never wavering in his faith. Louis who never hesitates to speak his mind, who always has a comment about everything, a clever quip.

He thinks: _god, how you love me_.

If there’s only one thing Harry can remember, one memory he would be allowed to keep with him, it would be this one. The memory of how Louis loved him so.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr post [here](http://pininglou.tumblr.com/post/129355707366/thanks-to-julia-bunboyfriend-for-the-graph)


End file.
